


The Interview

by JP (jpgr1963)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/JP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Their first Rolling Stone interview together in 1982.  AU.  No angst, but much sloppy mush and silliness and bum loving.</p><p>This was written as an extra chapter for my fanfiction, <b><i>The Contract</i></b>. I'm not sure if this story stands well on its own, but it is still one of my personal favorites.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction with no intention of libel.  I do not own the Beatles or J. Wenner or Rolling Stone magazine. I only own the words and the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**New York City, February 1982**

 

John Lennon was teetering on the edge of wakefulness, floating along on that narrow precipice just before his mad dreams abruptly ended and his eyes lazily opened to another new day in his new queer life. His thick eyelashes fluttered against the fleshy hollows above his cheekbones, his eyes darting rapidly behind his closed eyelids… and then his restless lash feathers slowly quieted, as his brain tried to steal a few more moments of deep sleep.

At the moment when he had nearly drifted back into oblivion, curled up on his side under the bed covers on top of their king-sized hotel mattress, John’s lover began fondling him from behind, stirring the incurable insomniac from his precious slumber. First, there came that familiar hairy warmth pushing up against and then in between John’s legs. Then another lean, furry leg draped itself up and over him, enveloping and squeezing John’s thick thigh tightly. With a smirk, John narrowly opened his brown eyes, squinting at the harsh morning brightness streaming in through the window, and waited.

It wouldn’t take long. Never did.

A few seconds later, Paul wrapped his left arm possessively around John’s bare waist, pulling himself even closer with a soft sigh, still clutching John’s smooth, freckled muscles between his own wooly legs. He nuzzled his face against the soft skin below John’s shoulder blades, as he rubbed his legs up and down the length of his partner’s stocky limb, curling and stretching his toes in satiated pleasure. Then, as John knew would happen, Paul snuggled even closer to him, pressing his twitching boner and toasty ball bag hard against boxers that covered the bottom curve of John’s arse cheek, grinding back and forth with a muffled moan into John’s back. 

Paul was a morning groper, even more so after a long night of exhausting, delicious lovemaking… over several different pieces of furniture in their sumptuous suite at the exclusive Manhattan hotel.

“Mmm… Johnny.”

John chuckled low under his breath, and intertwined the stocky fingers of his left hand through Paul’s graceful ones that were resting on John’s firm abdomen.

“Barging in on my beauty rest then, are ya?” John turned his head around, even though he knew that he wouldn’t be able to see Paul’s adorable, well-fucked face since it was burrowed low in the hollow of John’s spine. “Morning, Paul.”

“Mmm… morning, luv. I still can’t… shit, this is fuckin’ real, isn’t it?” A still half-asleep groper on this bright morning, Paul squeezed John’s hand tighter, as he pressed his stiff prick against John’s body harder. It seemed he couldn’t get close enough.

“We jumped off the queer diving board into the deep end, Macca. Fuckin’ head first.”

“Yeah, we did.” Paul mumbled, gradually waking up, and massaged his nose against the rocky vertebrae of John’s backbone. “No regrets, John?”

“Not a single fucking one, baby. You’re good, right?”

“Bloody perfect. I’ve never been happier in me whole life.” Paul hummed the last few words affectionately into John’s warm skin. 

Fuck, they’d have to go public soon. Make a statement or declaration or something. They couldn’t stay unseen in the shadows, hiding out in some nowhere corner of Scotland for much longer. And Paul was anxious to get back to the studio… a real fucking recording studio, not the makeshift hodgepodge of equipment they’d slapped together at their rented cottage.

Christ, everyone had worked hard to keep their reunion under the press radar for more than a year now… even the ex-wives hadn’t squawked to the tabloids. That was a bloody miracle… and the payoff of outrageously generous divorce settlements and expensive solicitors concocting legally binding gag orders.

This trip to New York together was fucking dangerous. He and John both knew it, but Sean needed at least some time with his mother. And a week’s visit with her son might ensure that she kept her manipulative mouth shut. Fuck. No doubt McCartney and Lennon would be spotted together at some point on this brief American holiday, walking through the hotel lobby or in a restaurant or somewhere. The shit would hit the fan. Soon.

But hell, they’d fucking done it. 

Almost.

John grunted and rolled over on his back and sat up, tugging Paul’s head by his short, thick locks, pulling him back down to gently rest on Lennon’s hairless chest. Despite the shift in positions, Paul wouldn’t relax his vise-grip on John’s thigh, as the younger man traced the fingertips of his left hand over John’s creamy stomach in random patterns, crooning some old tune mindlessly.

“So what’s on our schedule for today, captain?” John groaned with a loving snort, raking his hand through his own messy bed hair.

“Captain? Shit, ya must be in love.”

John bent down and kissed the top of Paul’s dark, ruffled hair, inhaling his post-fuck musky scent.

“That I am. So, what do you have planned for us, darling?”

“Nothing. Thought we’d spend the day in bed.” Paul sucked on one of John’s small nipples, murmuring as he rolled the hard nub between his soft lips. 

“Though…”

John opened one eye, arching his brow in amusement, waiting for his partner to spill the details of his latest scheme.

“We could look at another flat if you’re game. That realtor twit’s arranged for us to see a place uptown this evening before dinner. Says this one is spot on, with everything I asked him for. Perfect for when we’re in New York.”

“S’long as there’s a bog to shit in and a place to fuck your sweet arse, I’ll be good with whatever you fancy, Paul.” John winked and grinned and closed his eyes as he leaned back against the headboard, his features relaxed and content. Propping himself up on one elbow, Paul lifted his head off John’s chest and glanced up, mesmerized by how fit and healthy John was now… even the freckles sprinkled across John’s tanned, high cheekbones, souvenirs from their recent beach holiday with the kids, seemed to radiate with happiness.

Captivated and completely besotted, Paul reached up and grabbed a fistful of John’s curls, pulling him down towards his luscious, open mouth.

“Oi… brush yer teeth first, will ya?”

“What ‘bout you?”

“I’m not the one with mornin’ dragon breath, Paul. Wash out that pretty, nasty mouth of yers for me.”

Paul grumbled a muffled profanity and pushed himself up off the mattress, flinging the covers off his naked trim body with bitchy annoyance. “This is fucking rubbish, Lennon!”

“Go on now. I’ll wait.” Licking his lips, John crossed his arms and watched Paul’s round, bare bum swagger over to the posh hotel loo. From behind the half-shut door, he heard Paul turn on the sink faucet, followed by the splashing sounds of a steady, strong stream of urine hitting the toilet water.

“Still pisses like a bloody race horse.” John chuckled to himself.

John closed his eyes again, remembering the night before…

The sight of Paul’s beautiful mouth twisted in lustful determination… with that Elvis snarl curling his upper lip, drops of perspiration falling off the tip of his nose…

The sight of his lover’s arse impaling furiously up and down on John’s steady, steel erection. 

John opened his eyes and looked over at the sofa in the hotel suite where they had fucked hours earlier; John had been seated passively on the couch, Paul on his knees, squatting over John’s hard on, faced away from John and hunched forward in blinding ecstasy, grabbing onto John’s knees for leverage and pounding himself ferociously on John’s piston.

Paul fuck-me-harder McCartney was the best goddamn lover Lennon had ever bedded. Or ever imagined, for that matter. And with John’s filthy, creative imagination, that was saying a lot.

John closed his eyes again, recalling with a snort the angry protest that Paul growled when John clamped his hands on Paul’s hips and pull him back and down onto his lap in one hard move, stopping his partner’s violent, hungry hole drives onto John’s cock.

“No… shit, no. Fuck, John… I’m so fuckin’ close…”

“Hush, baby.” John had whispered affectionately, kissing Paul’s soaked, trembling neck, rivers of sweat pouring down from his dark hair. They sat there, motionless, John filling Paul’s tightness to the hilt, Paul’s insides burning with unreleased need.

“Please, Johnny… lemme please move, luv. I’m… I’m fuckin’ right there…”

“Quiet.” With one hand firmly holding his hips down, John wrapped an arm around Paul’s torso and pulled him down further and back against his chest, running his hand over his lover’s hot, drenched skin. “We’re not rushing this. We’ve all night.” Paul had worked himself up into a delirious shagging fury… impatient nit.

Fisting a clump of Paul’s soaked locks, John sharply bent Paul’s head back over his shoulder and kissed his wet, plump cheek, murmuring softly into his right ear.

“I’m not a fucking sex toy, Macca. Ease up, ya horny bastard, before you break me prick.”

Eyes shut tight, lips parted and panting, Paul groaned again in frustration at not being able to move… not be able to explode from the intense friction of John’s cock slamming over and over against his tingling prostate. Just stuck there, on the edge of release, not allowed to fall over the cliff.

“Mmm… gimme yer hand.”

Paul wasn’t about to disobey… he’d do fucking anything John demanded at that point to empty his painfully full balls. John brought Paul’s hand up to his own mouth and sucked on all those long, talented fingers, then licked Paul’s palm until it was slippery with saliva.

“Now stroke yerself for me, slowly.”

“Fuck, John…”

“Slowly. I wanna enjoy you getting yerself off for a bit.” Paul let out a moan from the back of his throat that sounded a fuck lot like a kitten’s whimper. As ordered, he gripped his slender fingers around his shaft and began to slide and twist his palm up and down his own aching throbber, as John watched, still holding Paul’s hips down hard and teasingly motionless on his thick cock. Paul tried to squirm; John gave him a tender but firm warning bite on his shoulder. Paul cried out John’s name, making the filthiest wail out of that one sacred syllable.

Fucking hell… that moment was exquisitely sweet. John smiled, satisfied and still aching inside from his own turn last evening… down on all fours on the floor in front of the sofa, acquiescing to Paul’s cowboy fantasies. Give and take, after all.

If only they’d brought the fucking hat.

Suddenly, the phone on the side table rang loudly, jarring Lennon out of his mouthwatering, lustful memories.

It was too early for bleeding phone call! But it might be Sean, so John snapped back to the present. He leaned over and lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?”

“John! It’s you, right? I heard a rumor that you were in town.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“It’s Jann.”

“Come again?”

“Jann Wenner… from Rolling Stone.” 

For shit’s sake!

Just as John began to speak, Paul strolled back out into the hotel bedroom stark naked, a sudsy toothbrush dangling out of his mouth, an eyebrow cocked in curiosity. From the look on John’s face, he could tell that the call was an uninvited shit of an intrusion. 

“Oh, hello. How the hell did you know I was in New York?” Throwing a sideways, annoyed glare at Paul, John’s razor-sharp tone had a lethal edge to it.

“The wife and kids bumped into Yoko and Sean at the park zoo yesterday. She gave us your hotel contact. Said you’d be here in town until Saturday.”

“Did she then?” Paul saw John mouth twist into a lion’s snarl. He quickly jerked the toothbrush out of his mouth, a stream of white frothy spit running down his chin. Silently he mouthed, “Who is that?” to his furious lover.

“So, how are you, John? Listen, I’m sorry about the divorce and everything.”

“Yeah right, mate. Hold on a mo, will ya?” With a hushed curse, John forcefully shoved the receiver under a plush pillow.

“It’s fucking Wenner from Rolling Stone. Ran into Sean and the ex somewhere, and now he knows I’m in New York… nosy fucking prick.”

Paul spat the toothpaste goo out of his mouth into a washcloth and, to John’s surprise, bent over with a laugh.

“Jann fucking Wenner, the famous and greatest of all the Lennon arse-kissers?”

John shook his head and winked. “You’re the greatest Lennon’s arse kisser, darling.”

“Well, true… but is he still me most devoted cunt of a fan?”

“Oh, he loves your old bubblegum shit, Macca. Has all yer records.” John snorted back, delighted at Paul’s playful, bitchy reaction. And then John saw it. That bright spark in Paul’s beautiful eyes… that indescribable, wicked Macca twinkle. Paul purposefully strode over to the bed and straddled his furry nakedness over John’s hips. He lifted John’s chin with his forefinger and kissed him hard, snaking his tongue between John’s lips before pulling back with a naughty sneer. 

“Better?”

“Mmm… much better, baby. Bloody delicious, in fact.”

Wrapping his arms around Paul’s bare shoulders, John pulled him down for another deep, noisy snog.

“So, Macca… what should I tell the fucking twat?”

“Ask him for an interview… this afternoon. Tell him he’ll get an exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime scoop. Get his greedy press knickers all filthy wet. He fancies you, you know?”

It took John a few moments to recover from his hysterics. No one made Lennon laugh like Paul always had.

“Yer serious? I’m not fucking saying that, Paul. Why on earth would I want to give an interview? I thought we were mucking and fucking about in bed for the day.”

“Change of plans. Time to go public, Johnny boy. Today. S’gonna happen anyroad… now that the press knows you’re in New York.” Paul leaned down, resting his forehead against John’s, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper.

“Since we’ve got to do it sometime, let’s do it on our terms, right? And at least we can have a fucking giggle while we’re announcing our queerness to the world.” Paul then gently sucked on John’s lower lip, moaning with devotion before he spoke again.

“Listen, John… I want that Wenner prick to kiss and faun over my pretty arse for once. Make the prat squirm. And hey… we’ll get the cover shot, I expect.”

John closed his eyes with a deep sigh. McCartney was fucking right… again. “What about our families? And George and Ritch and…?”

Paul pushed his calloused thumb pad against John’s thin lips, silencing him.

“I’ll ring them up now. Let everyone know what’s gonna happen beforehand.”

“Bloody Christ, Paul.”

“John… it’s time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**New York City, February 1982, later that afternoon**  
   
   
Paul momentarily pressed his bare forehead against the ice-cold surface of the hotel windowpane; his aching head craved that numbing sensation, a tactile reminder that this was not a dream.  
   
It had turned into one of those frigid, bone-chilling days in Manhattan, the blistering winds whipping through the steel and glass canyons of the city. Paul watched groups of hapless pedestrians down below on the sidewalks, scurrying to and fro like insects, clutching their coats and straining to keep their balance. The bright sunshine of the morning had gradually morphed by lunchtime into an over cast, brutal winter day. It was threatening to snow, but the swollen dark clouds slowly engulfing the skyscrapers around him held onto their loads, ready to burst at the seams.   
   
It was the perfect day…  
   
The perfect ominous weather…  
   
For the shit to hit the fan.   
   
No, this certainly was not a fucking dream.  
   
After the last silvery column of ash flaked off and fell in some sort of strange slow motion, McCartney smashed his spent cigarette into the ashtray.  His fingers were shaking uncontrollably. With a deep breath, he curled his hands into fists, trying to will his body to calm down.  
   
Fuck.   
   
Everything was about to change… again.   
   
A couple of hours earlier, after phone calls to the few who needed to know in advance about the Rolling Stone interview revelation, Paul had secured a more modest room on a lower floor of the hotel for the main event.  And here they were now. Waiting, exposed… like voluntary sacrificial offerings.  But the thought of that prick Wenner interviewing them upstairs in their private suite had made Paul physically nauseous…  
   
No.  
   
It would happen where he decided it would happen. When Paul bloody allowed it to happen.  He’d have some fucking scrap of control over this mad coming out circus.  
   
He sighed anxiously and considered lighting another smoke, rubbing his damp palms against his thighs through the soft fabric of his navy blue suit trousers. And then, he looked up again. In the crisp reflection of the glass, Paul saw an image in reverse of his partner seated behind him on a nearby small couch in the main room, feet casually propped up on the table.  
   
Dressed in faded jeans and a thick cream-colored cable jumper, his copper hair already longer and curlier than just a few weeks ago, John was preparing internally for the impending storm, staring off to nowhere, chomping down hard on his chewing gum.  Paul turned away from the window to face him and exhaled with a soft moan.  Shit John looked gorgeous… and resilient.   
   
Feeling the familiar burn of Paul’s beautiful eyes, John turned and broke into a wide smile; the life crinkles around his own captivating almond eyes were more deeply etched now.   
   
“How much longer do we have?”  
   
“Reckon ‘bout twenty minutes or so, Johnny.”  
   
“Right.”  
   
Despite his grin, John’s jaw was clenched in apprehension. “So, how do you see this playing out, Macca?”   
   
“Shit, John…” Exasperated, Paul scuffed his day’s worth of beard growth with his short fingernails, the scratchy noise filling up the quiet space around them.  “You’ll have to get the show rolling, I s’ppose.  Wenner thinks he’s interviewing just you, luv… right?”  
   
John growled without warning, feeling the first ripples of a tsunami of panic overtake him.  
   
“I’m not kneeling in the fucking poof confessional by meself, Paul!”   
   
“No, no… you won’t be alone. I’ll be there from the start, John.  In the background at first… ya know, invisible.”  
   
John spit out a strained chuckle.  “Invisible? Shit, is that your plan? ‘Don’t mind Beatle Paul invisibly floating about the fucking room, Jann.’  Is that what I’m supposed to say, ya madman?”  
   
Paul sat down next to John on the sofa, coughing hard from a brief but painful laughing spasm. He had to fucking quit smoking.  He ran the fingers of his left hand along John’s denim-clad leg, stroking and squeezing, trying to rub away some of the palpable tension that weighed down on them both.  
   
“Don’t worry.  It’ll just be a bit of a lark, that’s all. The bastard owes me a laugh or two.”  
   
“You’re not gonna fucking skive off and abandon me then, are you?”  John’s voice cracked.  
   
“No, I won’t leave, baby.  I’ll  _never_  leave you.  Shit, I love you, John.”  Heartbroken at the fear so evident in John’s eyes, Paul murmured the words with choirboy devotion into the soft fur of John's sideboard.  John still didn't trust him... not completely. Perhaps he never would.  
   
Despite the honest reassurances, John’s nerves were curling and contorting his thin lips.  “So what  _am_  I supposed to say to him, darling?”  
   
“Well, I thought… I figured that we’d start with different subject. You could talk about it with Wenner for a spell and then I’ll…”  
   
“Eh? What  _subject_  is this then?”  
   
“Well, it’d be a great chance to announce that we’re working together again.”  
   
John said nothing; he just turned and stared into Paul’s frightened but eternally hopeful eyes through his own lightly tinted lenses, while the cogs in his skull started to rotate.  Paul could practically hear the wheels grinding.  
   
“Listen, John.  Why  _not_ tell him that we’re writing again… and recording?”  
   
“We’ve not recorded a fucking thing, Paul.  The crap we’ve sung into that shit piece of old tape gear you rigged together is never hitting the light of day.”  
   
“John, luv. We  _are_ making music together again… and that’s big fucking news, luv.  If we talk about how there’s new songs or an album or whatever, then we’ll have shit to discuss besides…” Burying his head in his fingers, Paul stopped his rambling and leaned forward, resting both of his elbows on his knees.   
   
“I fucking dunno, John. I dunno how the hell this is gonna go.”  Paul was bloody scared shitless, desperately trying to stay in control and focused. They were gonna go public in fucking Rolling Stone magazine… tell the whole world that they were queer. It could destroy everything they'd created, but the lying and pretending and sneaking about would destroy them in the end.   
   
John had agreed. It was time.  
   
Feeling his lover’s terrified shivers, John looked away and blinked slowly, as he rubbed his right hand hard through the starched linen of Paul’s dress shirt, up and down the knotted muscles of Paul’s back.  
   
“Christ, Macca.”   
   
A pause… a fucking long one.   
   
“Shit, it’s a good plan, Paul…  us having more to chat about other than our big queer news bulletin and all.”   
   
Another lingering pause… followed by John’s forced, raspy chuckle.   
   
“But I’m not promising a entire fucking album.  Got it?”  
   
With a delicious shudder as John’s fingers ran over a sensitive spot, Paul turned his head up, smiling with every muscle and wrinkle in his face. “So we’ll start there… with our music… and see where the interview goes, all right? It’s on our terms, like I said.  We’ll just say what feels right.  Are ya ready?”  
   
“How the hell are you so calm ‘bout this?”  
   
“Fuck, I’m not calm!  Look at me, for shit’s sake!”  Paul thrust out a hand dramatically, his long fingers trembling violently. “I’ll be in the next room for the first bit.  I’ll figure out how best to join you.”  Although John tried to selfishly hold his partner down on the couch for his own needy comfort, Paul kissed him softly on the lips as he easily wiggled free and got up to his feet; he wrung his hands skittishly and disappeared in the bedroom hideout.  He needed to fucking collect his thoughts.  
   
Wenner and his crew would show up soon.   
   
John would have to start this leg of their long journey together alone.   
   
Once behind a half-closed door, Paul blew out an uneasy breath, well aware that his often-reckless partner could go off on a myriad of unplanned, dangerous paths.  Or John could just plain fucking get up and leave.  
   
Shit.  
   
~~~  
   
Ten more minutes passed, and they arrived… early.  Jann appeared the same but certainly older, like most folks they knew.  His petite, young assistant was focused on her tasks, eyes constantly downcast.  After a round of handshake familiarities and introductions, they discarded their winter coats and settled in the main sitting room.  The gloomy, wintry city skyline loomed sinisterly in the window behind John’s spot alone on the sofa, backlighting his features in the dim grey afternoon light.  
   
“Can I record this, John? Just for writing the piece.”  
   
“I get the tape afterwards.  No copies, Jann.  And your assistant leaves. Nothing personal, luv.” John smiled slowly, adding a deliberately seductive spice to his commands.  He turned his gaze back to his fawning interrogator, his eyes narrowed with lethal seriousness.  “You know the fucking rules, man.”  
   
 _“Shit, Lennon looks damn good.”_   Jann realized, as his prick twitched uncontrollably.  He’d always been an unapologetic Lennon fan boy.  He fondly remembered once jacking off all over Lennon’s sexy face, those doleful, handsome eyes staring out desperately from the  _Beatles For Sale_  album cover.   
   
Crap, John looked fucking great.  
   
As Wenner’s helper bird did a final check on the tape recorder and flitted out of the hotel room, Jann shifted uncomfortably in his chair, readjusting his jeans. John snickered silently and stole a quick glance at the bedroom door.  Paul was right there, he reminded himself… just yards away. He exhaled and relaxed back into his seat across the low table from Wenner, basking quickly in his natural aura of dominance.  
   
“Absolutely, John. I’ll have my staff get the tape to you before you leave New York.  Holy cow…” Jann let out a long breath of relief.  “It’s really great to see you again, man.  This exclusive interview is… hell, I really… I really,  _really_  fucking appreciate it.”  
   
“I’ve no doubt.” John shook his head with a crooked, sarcastic sneer as he folded his arms over his chest.   
   
Toady Yank cunt.  
   
“Are you ready to start?”  
   
John bit down on the soft skin on the inside of his cheek and then waggled his eyebrows and smiled, dimples dotting his sun-kissed face. His public mask was on… for now.   
   
“Ready as whore with her knickers down, son.”  
   
Jann pressed down the red record button.  
   
 **Wenner:**  “Wednesday, February 12, 1982.  I’m here with John Lennon at the… at an undisclosed New York hotel.  John, it’s been some time since you’ve spoken with the press.  So, man… what have you been up to?”  
   
 **John:**  “Just kipping and fucking.”  John winked, his fingertips fidgety, picking gingerly at the yarns of soft wool of his jumper.  
   
And then silence… except for the muted sounds of the winds whirling outside.  
   
 **John:**  “I’ve been on an extended holiday of sorts, Jann… a bit of a rest, s’all. I was bloody trapped on the strung out, rock star merry-go-round, so I jumped the fuck off, with a little help from me mates.  Long story short… I kicked the hard drugs, got divorced, got custody of my son and I moved back home to Britain. I’m a crusty middle-aged bore now, ya know.  But I’m alive… and doing well.   _Very_  well, all you folks out there.”  
   
John leaned down and loudly spoke the last words in a comically high-pitched voice into the recording device as he casually pulled out a cigarette; quick as a brown-nosed pussy, Jann reached across the table to light it for him.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “That’s great.  And why are you back here in New York, John?”  
   
John just stared for a few moments, his eyes mere slits behind his glasses.  
   
 **John:**  “My son’s spending a short visit with his mother.”  
   
As he blew out a cloud of smoke, John felt his gut tighten and his mouth grow dry… he was starting to lose grip on his nerve.  
   
 **Wenner:**  “Ah, I see.  Well, we won’t dwell on the topic of your divorce from…”  
   
 **John:**   “No, we won’t… Jann.”  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Right.  So, John… are you still on hiatus?  Are there any new projects in the works?”  
   
 **John:**   “That there are. I am working on another book, for a start.”  
   
His presence obscured behind the bedroom door, Paul turned his head towards the main room and arched an eyebrow.  _“What the fuck is he on about? A new book?”_  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Fantastic!  Can you tell us about it?”  
   
 **John:**   “No.  There’s nothing to talk about.  Just scrambled word nonsense in my fucked-up mind, that’s all.  Shit, really.”  
   
Jann reached down and shut off the tape recorder, with a frustrated smile of a huff; John smirked at the man’s obvious discomfort with his uncooperative attitude.  
   
“Let’s see if we can come up with better questions, darling.”  John was starting to enjoy this little ‘going nowhere’ interview tease… it was wasting time, delaying the inevitable.  Jann nodded hesitantly and pressed the red tape recording button back down.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Well… that’s very cool.  A new John Lennon book in the works.  Something great to look forward to. What about music? We haven’t heard from you in ages.  Hey, have you listened to the Stones’ latest record? It’s a very different sound for them…”  
   
Suddenly, they both turned their heads at the distinct, loud noise of the shower being turned on full blast somewhere behind the half-shut bedroom door.  John brought his hand up to his mouth, sucking hard on his smoke and trying to cover his amused grin with his fingers, with little success.  Shit, he bloody loved that cagey, beautiful fucker.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Is someone else here? I thought we were alone. I didn’t realize that… that you had company, John.”  
   
 **John:**   “Yeah, someone’s here.  And yes, I’ve heard the latest Stones record and I don’t care for it. Well, there’s a good tune or two in there somewhere, but most of it’s bloody rubbish. Have you seen their music telly thing, where Mick’s prancing about like a fucking puckered chicken?”  
   
Wenner:   _chuckles uncomfortably_   “Yeah, I did see that.  Jagger’s still quite the performer.”   
   
Jann pressed down the stop button, not daring to look up into John’s wicked eyes.  
   
“Listen, man… really, should I leave?”  
   
“No, you’re fine. Carry on with it then.”  The red button was pushed down once more with a click.  
   
 **John:**  “Getting back to your question… yes, I’ve been working on a record project as well.  It’s just started, not much yet really.  It’ll be fucking brilliant when it’s finished though.”  
   
 **Wenner:**  “Shit, your fans have been waiting forever for a new Lennon album.  What’s is going to be like… what’s the sound?”  
   
 **John:**  "It’ll be a real fucking rock record, Jann… not like that dance horseshit that Keith and Jagger are pissing all over the radio.  Paul and me will make sure of that.”  
   
Jann’s mouth fell slack and his eyes shot open, his brain finally finding the courage to look straight at Lennon’s hypnotic glare, softened a bit around the edges now. Just saying Paul’s name out loud had relaxed John’s tensed muscles.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Holy crap, John!  Are the Beatles back together?”  Wenner was practically panting, close to hyperventilating.  
   
 **John:**   “Never fucking said that, did I?”  
   
Abruptly, the whoosh of shower water in the bedroom bath was turned off with a clang.   
   
He wasn’t sure why he did it, but Jann leaned forward and lowered his voice to a hush.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Shit. I thought you were talking about  _the_ Paul, as in  _McCartney_  Paul.”  
   
With a loving snort, John's broad, infectious smile erupted, lighting up his delighted face.  
   
 **John:**   “Is there another Paul then?”   
   
 **Wenner:**  “Wait… you  _are_  talking about McCartney? I mean… I heard that he ended Wings and got divorced or separated or something, at least that’s the rumor.’  Jann inhaled deeply, catching his breath before he could continue. “You’re working on an album… with Paul fucking McCartney? Lennon and McCartney are back together? This is huge, man! Bit unexpected, considering all the… well, you know.  But, like wow!”  
   
Hearing the tit’s babbling in the main room, Paul grinned as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a plush towel.  _“Fucking bootlicking ponce.”_  
   
John pulled his glasses down the bridge of his nose, his sparkling eyes peering over the thin frames, as his hearty smile slid effortlessly into a naughty smirk.  
   
 **John:**   “Unexpected?  Yeah… for narrow-minded prats, I s’ppose. Don't be just another dim shit of a cunt, Janno.”  
   
Just then, as if on cue, the bedroom door opened and out sauntered Paul, in all his near naked, sopping wet glory… dark hair still dripping, a short white towel knotted low around his narrow waist, exposing the trail of ebony hair that emerged from beneath the terry cloth and wound its way up to envelop his belly button.  Nearly forty and damn all if the bastard couldn’t still pull it off.  
   
With not so much as a glance or a nod, McCartney silently padded past them to the small bar on the other side of the main hotel room.  His lean, tanned back rippled and glistened with chance patterns of water drops. After filling two crystal tumblers with amber liquor, Paul slowly lit a cigarette.   
   
Finally Wenner found his voice, though it was nothing more than a faint whisper.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Hell, that’s Paul!  That’s really him.  I’ve never actually met or seen McCartney… well, not this close.  At Shea, yeah, but… holy mother of crap.”  
   
And then a light bulb clicked on in that wickedly beautiful mind. John lazily smiled his trademark ‘I’m gonna fuck with you, arsehole’ John smile… and bent down and turned off the tape recorder.  
   
“Careful, Jann.  Listen, between you and me, Macca thinks he’s invisible sometimes…  too much weed and touring’s fucked him up a bit.  Just pretend he’s not here, right?”  John spilled the lies with a dead seriousness, his eyes unconsciously glued on the rear view of Paul’s wet, half-naked perfection.   
   
Taking his first sip of scotch, his back to the interview area, Paul snorted silently and tried not to gag on the burning liquid or jiggle his bum from laughter.  Fuck, he loved his conniving love mate.  He relished that he and John could play off each other still, effortlessly read each other’s precocious, cheeky minds.  
   
“Wait, Paul’s not…  _really_?  He’s messed up? C’mon, John… you’re bullshitting me, man.”   
   
John turned without rush; his face was granite sober, not the hint of a smirk or the slightest ghost of a jest.  
   
“Do I look like I’m fucking with ya, son? Just do what I say, all right?”  
   
“Shit.”   
   
As Paul slowly turned around, with a lit fag dangling from his lips, water drops falling off his shadow of facial stubble, Jann quickly diverted his wide-eyed gaze, but not before a slight dribble of lustful drool dripped out the corner of his mouth.  
   
John reached down and pressed the record button back on.  
   
 **John:**  “So what were we talking about?”  
   
 **Wenner:**  “What? Um, the new record… I think.”  
   
 **John:**   “Right.  Like I said, me and Paul have just gotten started, but it’s coming together.  We’ve laid down a couple of rough tracks back in Scotland, in this hovel of a studio that Macca’s thrown together.  It’s good… the fans will cream themselves silly when they hear the finished album.  And they better buy a fuckload of copies.  I need the money, darlings.  Macca's a rich bastard but I'm bloody skint at the moment.”  
   
Paul grabbed the two glasses of scotch and walked around the back of the small couch, sitting down so close to John that he practically fell into his lap. He handed John his drink, and then leaned back, crossing his hairy forearms and lifting one long leg over the other so that the towel parted more than just a tad, revealing an eyeful of his furry thighs and those tempting shadows... magical hollows of darkness that directed Wenner's gaze to the sweet daydream of actually being able to see McCartney's legendary ball sack. Paul stared straight at the fucker... stoic and as silent as an apparition.  
   
As he casually stretched his left arm along the top of the couch behind Paul, John acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and simply continued their naughty game.  
   
 **John:**  "So, yeah.  Paul and I are writing music again... together.  Big fucking news, wouldn't you say, Jann? Deserves the cover of your rag, I think."  
   
 **Wenner:**  "You're not shitting, John. Biggest fucking news in a helluva long time!"  
   
In two quick gulps, Paul swallowed his scotch and slammed the tumbler down on the table, causing Jann to jump in his seat. It took Wenner a couple of seconds to recover before he could continue.  
   
 **Wenner:**  "Yes, the cover for sure. We’ll get Annie to shoot the photo, John.  Hey... what about a modern reinterpretation of that classic David Bailey shot?  Now that's an amazing, iconic image!"  
   
Oh, fuck.  
  
Wenner didn’t just say that, did he?  
   
With a purr of a growl, Paul spread his thighs a bit farther apart, widening the slit of the skimpy towel peep show.  
   
And then… out of nowhere… McCartney fucking stuck his index finger in the glass of scotch precariously balanced on John's thigh, and sucked the liquor juice off... slowly, with soft, sensuous slurps.  Wenner couldn’t peel his eyes off the sight of Paul’s finger sliding between those full, wet lips; unknowingly he grabbed his own crotch and readjusted his rogue dick.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “So, John… do you think I’ll get a chance to interview Paul for this article?  I mean… he needs to be a part of it.  He’s the other half…”  
   
 **John:**   “The other half of the sky… yeah, he is at that… and more."  
  
 **Wenner:**  "So do you think he'd agree to sit down with me for an interview."  
  
 **John:**  "I dunno, Jann.  Doesn’t seem bloody likely at the moment.  But I’ll have a chat with him and see if we can work something out.”  
   
Paul turned his hips towards John, a difficult maneuver considering he was practically in John’s pocket already. He rested his damp tousle of hair down on the soft wool covering John’s broad shoulder and closed his eyes with a relaxed smile.  His shift of position caused his towel to rise up, and reveal a glimpse of the firm curve of his right arse cheek. Jann swallowed the growing lump in his throat.  
   
 **Wenner:**   “I’d… shit, I’d really appreciate that, man.  Let him know I’m a huge fan, ok?  All that stupid shit from the past… water under the bridge, right?”  
   
John laughed hard, as his fingertips lightly caressed the skin at the base of Paul’s neck, out of Wenner’s view, sending shivers down Paul’s back. Then John lowered his voice to a more silky but deadly tone.  
   
 **John:**  “Macca fucking hates you, ya know? And he’s the diplomatic one. You’ve got some serious groveling to do, Wenner.”  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Anything, John.  I’ll do anything.”  
   
 **John:**  “Hmm?  Paul likes his toes sucked.  Oh no, wait… it's the other way ‘round.”  
   
And finally, after hours of grueling tension wracking his entire body… Paul fucking lost it.  He buried his face into the crook of John’s warm neck and began laughing hysterically, tears streaming down his cheeks.  John didn’t budge or change his expression; he just wrapped his arm around Paul’s shaking naked torso and pulled him in tighter.  
   
 **John:**   “How ‘bout you write up a long letter, Jann. Addressed to Paul.  Your straight-up apology for all the horseshit lies and catty put-downs that you’ve spewed about Macca over the years.  Put in your magazine… right at the fucking front, son.”  
   
 **Wenner:**  “And you think that’d work?”  
   
 **John:**   “Might.  Dunno for sure. Paul can be a right finicky bint sometimes.”  
   
And then Paul did it.  He grabbed John roughly by the hair and pulled his face over and down.  Very slowly, he moved his mouth towards John’s lips… a fraction of an inch at a time, in some strange sort of slow motion.  Jann stopped breathing as he watched Paul McCartney softly kiss John Lennon on the mouth… on that mouth.  Fuck.  It seemed to last forever… that lingering kiss.  So fucking pure and tender and real.  When Paul broke it off to rebury his face in John’s thick, curly hair, John licked his lips and turned slowly back to Wenner.  
   
 **John:**   “So, right.  We’re back together… me and Paul.  Lennon and McCartney."  
  
 **Wenner:**  " Yeah, I see that.  What's going on, man.  I mean..."    
  
 **John:**  "We’re lovers.  Two boys in love.  We've been shagging and sucking each other like mad ever since we were lads back in Liverpool.  Our love story’s gonna be a big part of this article as well.  And you’re gonna fucking write it, Jann… with integrity and class and cartload of respect, mind ya. It had better be your best work ever, luv.”  
   
 **Wenner:**   “Shit. I don’t know what to say, John. I don't know if I can...”  
   
 **Paul:**  “Focus on one bloody word, Wenner."  
  
 **Wenner:**   "Huh?"  
  
 **Paul:**  "Pulitzer.”

 

THE END


End file.
